


The Jealous Lover, Or, In Death Not Divided

by evelyn_b



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery
Genre: Betrayal, Jealousy, Other, Romantic Friendship, alabaster brows, duskly flashing eyes, tragical and pathetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:20:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4302840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evelyn_b/pseuds/evelyn_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By Anne C. Shirley.</p><p>Cordelia Montmorency and Geraldine Seymour were bosom friends who swore never to part from each other's embrace, but when the dashing and mysterious Bertram DeVere interposes between them, shadows fall upon their path that once was so fair and bright. </p><p>Special thanks to Diana Barry and Matthew Cuthbert for their inspiration and encouragement, and to Miss Stacy for being so awfully understanding in letting us write what we wanted for this composition.</p><p>Warning: <i>very tragical</i>, don't like don't read!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jealous Lover, Or, In Death Not Divided

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/gifts).



In the ancient land of Acadie, beneath the restless, sorrowfully tossing pines and hemlocks, there lies a hallowed spot near a brook that the people of that realm call Maidens' Vow. It is said that if you stand at Maidens' Vow on nights when the sky is clear and the cool wind wild, you may chance to hear a voice sweet and sad, cracked and sad, singing a mournful ballad of twenty years ago. It is a small footbridge over a rushing silvery brook, weathered by time, and upon it the villagers place garlands of wildflowers every spring in memory of a sad tale that unfolded there of sweet Geraldine Seymour and her wild-hearted friend Cordelia Montmorency, and what befell of them when their maiden vow was broken. Listen, if you will! For it is a tale of great beauty, though it may make you weep as it has brought tears to the eyes of many a traveler since these sad events were first recorded.

It was a sorrowing night that our tale began, but Geraldine Seymour was not sorrowful. A wild wind like this one swept the trees as little sighs of rain fell and ceased and fell again upon her humble one-horse carriage. The shadows fell across the polished oak of her carriage, but no shadow had thus far fallen upon her bright path but one: the illness of her dear friend Cordelia Montmorency, who had caught cold from carrying firewood to the village school in damp weather and had been confined to her bed by the kindly Dr. Delancey who had known them both from childhood. 

Geraldine was sixteen, tall and queenly, and fair as the sun, with arms like marble pillars and a fall of pure spun gold hair that shone in the burnishing twilight like the colors of the sunset, with which she was oft compared. Her brow was of alabaster and her lips of rosy crimson, and her velvety deep purple eyes completed the picture. Indeed, her only peer in beauty was that same Cordelia who had been her friend from earliest infancy. As she drove, Geraldine thought fondly of her friend, whose regal coronet of midnight hair she had long envied, and whose duskly flashing eyes were as striking in anger or passion as in good humor and quickness of mind.

Long ago, when they were mere children, their fathers had built a little smooth-planed bridge over the bright brook that cut across the boundary of their lands, and it was upon this bridge that they had taken their first vow of eternal friendship. Clasping hands over the laughing water, they had sworn to bind their hearts each to the other, to share all things in life, and to be in death not divided. Over the years, as they grew in beauty side by side, they oft returned to their bridge in the whispering meadow, and amid the loud music of the brook renewed their vows with many a tender embrace. Geraldine grew to be sweet-tempered, gentle and patient, but Cordelia was passionate and as changeable as a storm.

Now, as Geraldine recalled their vow, she felt a twinge of worry in her heart. She imagined Cordelia alone in her sick-room, and wondering why she was so late in visiting, for Geraldine had stayed too late at the village ball and was cursing herself for her selfishness. Poor Cordelia! thought Geraldine, her passionate and loving nature made her take all things more hardly than most. Many times had the two imagined the tragical circumstances that might divide them one from the other, such as death or marriage, but always it was in the comfort of their togetherness. But to worry alone, out of reach of the other, was terrible indeed!. Spurred by these fears, she began to hie her horse to go too quickly through the dark forest road, in hopes of hastening her arrival, and she did not notice the lithe bay mare beginning to be nervous under her reins. 

Just then, a dark figure darted across the path! The bay mare reared abruptly as it whinnied in terror, while Geraldine's full sixteen years flashed before her eyes as she screamed in fright, which, alas! Only made the horse more frightened than before. The alarmed mare flew off at a gallop, breaking into the clearing and down a grassy ravine, as Geraldine's carriage careened sickeningly back and forth, and each jolt of its fragile wheels felt as if it might be her last!

With a glance of alarm, she saw that the dark figure had leapt onto the back of the mare, and was frantically vying with its strength and speed to turn the carriage aside. Then, when this proved hopeless, he deftly uncoupled the carriage from the mare, and with a dreadful bump Geraldine found herself falling backwards into the tangled underbrush, and heard the thundering hooves galloping far into the distance away from her. 

There was a moment of terrifying stillness! Geraldine could feel her own heart pounding away beneath her breast. Then there was a crack and a rustle, and a figure loomed above the broken door of her carriage, and Geraldine stifled a scream before looking up to see the warmest and brightest pair of melancholy hazel eyes she had yet beheld in her sixteen years of life. As her eyes adjusted to the darkeness, she saw that the eyes belonged to a male face, with a strong rounded chin, stark brows, and a shock of chestnut hair falling over a broad intelligent forehead. 

“Please forgive me,” said the stranger. “Art thou at all hurt?”

Geraldine struggled to her feet, then cried in pain and fell backward. 

“I fear my ankle is broken,” she said. 

“Then we must carry you out of these treacherous woods to your home,” he insisted. “My name is Bertram DeVere. I do not believe we have met, but by your beauty I might guess you to be Geraldine Seymour, the dairyman's daughter.”

“You guess correctly,” said Geraldine, as her cheek flushed like the coming of the day, “though I fear I have but small beauty compared to Cordelia, whose home and sick bed I was on my way to visit. You are the new school-teacher, whom the children love so well.” 

“Yes, that is so,” said Bertram, “though I fear I am ill-suited to the work, as I have suffered from amnesia since I landed on these shores, and cannot remember anything about my former life or even if I am rich or poor. Even so, I am grateful for the welcome shown me by the good people of this village. And now, my lovely jewel of a Geraldine, I must see thee home, and carry thee if thou cannot walk.”

“Thou art too kind,” said Geraldine, “but I must go onward to Cordelia, who has waited too long already for me to return to her side.”

“Then I must carry thee to her,” he said, “however long the journey may be. I fear it is I who frightened your horse,” he added, “though I cannot imagine what I did to frighten him so.”

“It could not have been you,” exclaimed Geraldine, “for thou art fairer than new milk in dew-time, and gentle as rain.” 

“Still, I am sorry it happened, if indeed I did offend,” Bertrand reiterated. “I have heard tales of thy beauty, but they fell far short of the mark.”

He lifted Geraldine as lightly as if she had been a feather pillow, and she felt, with a flutter of regret, that her worry on Cordelia's behalf was falling away in the light of her happiness and good fortune. Surely, she told herself, Cordelia will be happy that I was resuced, and we shall all sit together and be friends together. Perhaps Betram would even fall in love with Cordelia, and how lovely that would be! She spent the long walk to Cordelia's house imagining the beautiful wedding of Bertram and Cordelia, with Cordelia resplendent in an ivory silk gown wih point-lace overskirt of snow-pure white, the magnificent black of her hair shown up in sharp relief by the clouds of lace and tulle of her cherry-blossom veil, and with the traditional wildflower garlands of their ancient village draped over her regal shoulders and slender waist. From time to time, Bertram spoke to her, and she imagined that he was whispering into the ear of her friend, fragments of poetry on the splendor of the night and his own devotion, and at these words she smiled a secret smile to herself, for no one could help but love Cordelia, and who more than she deserved the love of this mysterious stranger? How lucky it was, Geraldine thought with a sigh, that chance had put her in the path of such a man.

Alas, what cruelty our kindnesses can wreak! In the days that followed, Geraldine and Bertram they spend many an evening and morning together at Cordelia's bedside, and walked in the meadow when they were alone together. Bertram spoke of his adventures at sea, at least the ones he could remember, and of his love for the primeval forests with their deep-bearding mosses, and of the ways of the village where fate had taken him. Geraldine loved to listen to his seafaring tales, though they were tragically few because of the amnesia. Alas, she could not perceive the dark cloud that had fallen across their paths, nor imagine what sorrows lay in store for these three. For Cordelia, unbeknownst to Geraldine, had fallen in love with Bertram, even before she fell ill! Meanwhile, Bertram's kindness to Cordelia, which he increased three fold for Geraldine's sake, only prolonged the illusion that he might return her love. Thus the seeds of darkness were planted in a heart too easily swayed by the dark pains of life. Geraldine, meanwhile, was the happiest of mortals, dividing her time between Bertram and Cordelia, and Bertram alone, and suspecting nothing of her friend's unhappy passion.

 

On a day in April that was heavy with the scent of lilacs, Bertram and Geraldine left Cordelia's bedside with happy assurance from Doctor Delancey that Cordelia was on her way to a full recovery, and would be able to return to regular exercise on the morrow. They walked together from the little stone cottage where Cordelia lived, alike in joy, but with very different thoughts in their two hearts. 

“Strange, is it not,” Geraldine sighed wistfully under the fragrant heaviness of the lilac branches, “that the month past has been one of the sweetest I have yet know, for all that I was so worried about Cordelia. Truly, it is a wonder how joy and fear can mingle so closely in a human heart.”

“Yes, the days with thee have been sweet,” agreed Bertram, adding in a low voice, “But one thing there is that might make them sweeter still.” 

“Yes,” agreed Geraldine feelingly, “when my Cordelia is truly well again, our happiness will be complete! Just look at these wildflowers in the golden light! Is there anything lovelier than a meadow at twilight?”

“There is one thing lovelier,” said Bertram, “and I have been luckier than I ever thought possible to be able to see it each day.”

“Cordelia,” agreed Geraldine happily. “But you have not yet seen her at her loveliest. Wait until she is well again, and you will see the bloom come back into her cheeks, and her eyes like summer lightning will flash as they once did. How I long to see her again in the fullness of her beauty! You will surely agree that she is the loveliest thing on Earth or in Heaven.”

“It is a rare kind of providence,” Bertram went on, his voice becoming soft and solemn, “that the grave illness of your friend should have been the cause of such joy as I have found in your company.” 

“Oh, no! Say your kindness to her, rather, has been the cause,” said Geraldine. “For I would not like to think of so dreadful an illness as providential.” 

Her face shone with love of her friend. “Stay, heart!” he bade his heart, as he gazed upon her in wondering love. He met her velvety purple eyes with his own beseeching hazel ones, and removed his hat, which caused Geraldine to pause in surprise, for in that village gentlemen did not remove their hats unless they had a serious declaration to perform. 

“As you know, Geraldine,” he began, “I came to these shores from a place I know not, for the amnesia that claimed my memories has left me with only a name to call my own. I may be a criminal, or a pauper, or have some other cruel history that would make me dangerous to this fair village. Yet I have been welcomed in thy kind village beyond my wildest dreams, and indeed, far beyond my dessert. When your horse took fright at me, I feared the worst – that that noble beast knew by instinct what I by accident had forgotten.”

“Hush, Bertram, stay thy words!” said Geraldine. “You have proved yourself a goodly man by your kindness to my Cordelia.” Geraldine's soft purply eyes strayed to the horizon, where they were echoed in the mingled colors of a dazzling sunset that lit up the undersides of clouds with vivid blushing pink and gold. “Though how anyone could fail to love Cordelia is beyond me. Is she not the loveliest creature, Bertram?”

“Indeed, she is lovely,” said Bertram, “but there is one maiden yet more fair and more beloved to my mind.”

“Perhaps in a legend of the Golden Age," said Geraldine, “but not on this earth – nay, and if there were, I should not think her as beautiful, for she would not have my heart as Cordelia does.”

Bertram paused along their pine-scented path, just before the clearing where Geraldine would turn aside to return to her own humble cottage. He took both Geraldine's slender ivory hands in his own as he gazed upon her beseechingly, with a light in his pale hazel eyes that took Geraldine's breath away with its poetic sincerity. 

“Is that true, my golden Geraldine?" he questioned. "Is your heart, then, hers alone?”

“Why, Bertram,” Geraldine queried in response, “What can such a question mean? Cordelia and I have vowed fealty to one another since our infancy. My heart will always be hers, though I do not know. . .” she lowered her radiant amethyst colored eyes uncertainly, "if it must always be hers. . . alone."

“Fair Geraldine!” he cried, “have pity! I shall be undone to learn that I have come too late to win thee, and no place reserved for me in any chamber of your innermost soul! Before your eyes I go on my knees, nay, I shall lay on the earth like a supplicant to the emperor of China, as one who is penitent crawls on hands and knees to Rome to beg a scrap of sweetly scented grace from haughty bishops. Is thy heart Cordelia's? Or might it someday also. . . be mine?” 

“Oh, Bertram,” said Geraldine. “I cannot say for certain what answer any question may bring, until I hear it spoke aloud. Wilt thou not ask, that I may answer truly and forever?”

“Geraldine Seymour, wilt thou grant me that happiness of which these golden days have been but a mirror and a shadow? Wilt thou marry me, and join me at the helm of the bark of our life, stalwart through all seas fair and foul alike? Long have I walked beside thee in these gentle woods, and though I am but a lost and straying lamb in the desert of my ravaged memory, will you join your hand with mine, and walk with me through all the sunlit and shadowy paths of life?” 

Geraldine's heart leapt at these words, though she had not expected them, for though she loved Bertram from the moment they met in the woods, she had not anticipated that his kindnesses toward her were anything other than the attentions of a friend. She had thought that Cordelia might catch his heart – and for the briefest of seconds she felt remorse that Cordelia should be left out, when she had suffered so in her illness and been so alone. But happiness overwhelmed her other feelings. 

“Bertram, my dear soul-friend,” she replied, “how can I answer? Before I met thee, I had but one bright polestar of my existence, the beauteous and tempestuous Cordelia, whom we both love so dearly! Indeed, I had not hoped till now that I should ever need another. Long have these weeks been and wearisome, since my darling was fallen ill from her too-long labors at the village school. Dark indeed would these days have been if not for thy companionship, for to lose my Cordelia would be to lose all the world, its tall trees and its bright stars, its joy and sorrow, its meadows rich with wildflowers and its gossiping melancholy pines. What home could I have among these, I wondered to myself, if Cordelia should be in heaven, and I alone on earth? Truly, I have felt alone for the first time in these weeks – alone and afraid! 

“In these seas of fear thou hast been a stalwart ship indeed, my kindly Bertram, and how much more will I need such a vessel in the future? I can only begin to imagine. Long have I wondered what would become of me should my dear Cordelia marry, as I fear she must, someone from far away who sees the true value of her beauty, and be taken far away from home, or if she should take ill again. Yet now I need not fear that I shall be alone in the world! Not since that fateful day when a dark figure frightened my poor bay mare, and I fell into your arms, have I been truly alone.” 

“Matchless Geraldine,” said Bertram remorsefully, “I fear it was I who frightened your horse, and for that I must beg your forgiveness, though it was not on purpose.”

“It could not have been thee,” Geraldine insisted, “for this was a frightening creature of darkness, and thou hast ever been mild and beautiful as the day. No, I would venture to guess that it was Fate who frightened my poor horse, and no other person or thing. Fate, appearing in a cloak of fear, but bringing me a gift beyond price! Truly and gladly I will marry thee, Bertram, and with greater gladness will I praise that blessed monster whose fearful countenance has given me this gift!”

Bertram leapt from his knees to his feet, and clasped her in his arms. “Truly, love is the greatest physician!” he exclaimed. “Thy answer has given my heart a shock of pure joy! Now as I stand before thee, thy betrothed, my memory begins to return. Rejoice, my queen of fair Acadie! For I am no criminal and no pauper, but bear jewels fit to crown thy golden head! Wilt thou accept these rubies, knowing thy worth is far above rubies, and allow me to take thee on a grand European tour when we are married?”

He reached into his satchel and brought forth a magnificent strand of crimson rubies, which he lifted up to Geraldine as he went back on one knee. 

“Oh, they are lovely indeed! They remind me of my Cordelia, who is deep and glowing as a ruby, and has as fiery a heart. Gladly I will wear them! But oh, Bertram, must we journey so far and leave Cordelia at home? Can she not come to Europe with us, so that our happiness may grow all the greater in her magnifying presence?”

Bertram agreed that it should be so, and they spent many a happy hour making plans for their tour. Bertram also presented Geraldine with a ring of purest diamond, cut to dazzle like a tiny sun, and of a pale purple tint that recalled the color of Geraldine's eyes. 

 

Geraldine's happiness was beyond measure as she strode joyfully to meet Cordelia at their old favorite spot on the little foot-bridge, contemplating the delight of seeing her friend make a full recovery as well as of telling her about Bertram. Geraldine wore a pale pinky-grey ashes of roses frock that set off her magnificent golden hair and amethyst eyes, making her look more than ever like a blazing sunset. She had arranged the circlet of rubies in her hair so that they were hidden. Cordelia, for her part, had put on her richest pale blue gown trimmed with lace and midnight blue ribbon, and wore a necklace of lilacs, for she had grown so wan and pale in the illness that she yearned to put on all the gorgeousness she feared her face and figure had lost. She was radiant and wary for she bore a harrowing hunger in her ragged, sickness-ravaged soul. Geraldine greeted her with the warmest of embraces.

“It gives me such great joy to see thee, dear Cordelia!” she said.

“And I to see thee, sweet Geraldine,” answered Cordelia. “But what is it? You seem to be keeping from me some great secret.”

“How perceptive thou art! Could thou read it in my face, that I am engaged to be married to Bertram DeVere!? He has recovered his memory, and look-- !” She drew back the bright gold curtain of her hair to reveal the circlet of rubies, at the same time flashing the diamond ring which she also wore. Cordelia seemed to waver and collapse before Geraldine's wondering velvet eyes. “O! Cordelia, dost thou swoon??” she cried. “My stormy petrel, ever hast thou been a creature of such great feeling! It seems whatever joy I experience shall be felt tenfold in thy generous heart!”

With that remark, Cordelia fainted dead away, overcome by anguish and sorrow, and when she roused again, alas! All the love she once had for Geraldine had turned to bitter hate, for she loved Bertram and now could not hope to attain him except – except. . . ! For a shuddering instant, Geraldine seemed to see the beloved dark eyes flash dangerously, and for a moment again she felt a misgiving in her heart, but Cordelia hid the darkness that was in her and pretended to be happy for her friend, and said fair things aloud which she did not believe! while in her heart of hearts a secret darkness grew terrible and deep. 

“O treachery!” Cordelia whispered to herself, “hideous treachery, death of my soul! Bertram was mine – and she stole him from me – I was ill and helpless – and she stole him before I could gather my strength to speak! Was ever loyal friendship so betrayed?!” and she thought many other thoughts in this vein, but she vowed to stay by Geraldine's side and never to show the darkness that had fallen upon her soul. From that day forward, death was before her eyes, and a black cloud fell between her and all other souls on earth, save perhaps only that of the hapless and innocent Bertram DeVere. 

Preparations for the wedding were swift, and to all involved it seemed that love possessed the atmosphere and filled each breast with purer breath. Bertram remembered that he had great wealth on the Continent and ordered a gown of rich pale pink and ivory organdy and lace and his grandmother's point-lace heirloom veil that cascaded over Geraldine's alabaster neck and shoulders, while for Cordelia, as maiden of honor, was produced a midnight blue silk dress with enormous tulip-petal sleeves and a gathered waist with pale blue and ivory buttons and a bouquet of white and yellow roses.

The days passed quickly as silver water for Geraldine and Bertram, while with leaden tread they dragged wearily across the desert of Cordelia's lonely soul. No man guessed the pain and resentment that brewed behind her dazzling dark-mouthed smile! Only Geraldine alone was close enough to see the cracks in Cordelia's smiling mask, but alas! Geraldine's mind was fixed on her own blessedness and the busy tasks of planning, and her own happiness was like a blazing sun that blinded her to the pain in Cordelia's soul! How little she imagined how her words and peals of laughter were like knives to that soul! How quick she was to misunderstand the tears that sprang to Cordelia's dusky eyes at the mention or presence of Bertram De Vere! All day for weeks they worked side by side on Geraldine's large trousseau, or weaved garlands of fresh flowers with the maidens of the village, all the while as Cordelia had oh so many dark hours unseen, that rankled in her heart like thorns. 

On the afternoon of the day before the wedding, Geraldine bade her friend to meet her on the bridge between their fathers' lands, and to pledge once more the eternal vow they had taken so long ago. Cordelia went with a heavy heart, and the beauty of her friend's golden hair burned in her eyes as if it were a song of terrible sadness. She felt a sense of foreboding, even as though she was about to lose Geraldine for all time, though she did not know why. Hatred warred with love in her heart as she walked the last agonizing steps through the meadow bright with wildflowers to set her foot upon the old familiar bridge. 

“How long ago it now seems,” said Geraldine, taking her friends' hands in hers “that we pledged that sacred vow of love beside this stream! Look how wide and quick the water has grown this spring, as if, like our two hearts, it were overflowing with joy! Is it not a beautiful sight, refreshing to the spirit?”

“It is a sight indeed,” said Cordelia dully. Hidden behind his rock of hiding place, Bertram could see the struggle of passions untold on Cordelia's face and in her flashing eyes, whose anguished glances had begun to give him feelings of misgiving that he could not name. 

“I must not intervene,” he said to himself, tho fear gripped at his bowels with an icy hand. “They must take their leave unaided by me! For alas, even with my memory restored, I know so little of the ways of womankind!”

“We must part a little while,” Geraldine was saying, “but not forever. “Cordelia, wilt thou make the old vow with me once more before we depart for Europe? 'Together for life, and in death not divided, to share all sorrows and joys for as long as we live.' These words have never seemed truer to me than they do today.”

“Or thee more false,” muttered Cordelia huskily under her breath.

It was not the words, but the harsh quality of her voice that made Geraldine start with sudden alarm! “Cordelia, darling, do you weep for me” she beseeched. “Thou must not weep. Fain would I weep myself, but that I know nothing could come between us. Though we will be parted for a time, we will be together again as always when we depart all three together for Europe.”

Cordelia's dusky eyes flashed darkly. “What makes thee so sure?” she said sharply. 

Geraldine's ruby mouth fell open a little. She had no answer, she did not even fully understand the question. Vainly, she struggled for a response, but could only manage to say, “Why, Cordelia, why. . . why . . .”

“I loved Bertram,” said Cordelia coldly. Chills ran up Geraldine's spine as she spoke. “I have always loved him! Before you even noticed his existence I made myself sick for love of him, and my life has been a hell of wretchedness ever since, and when I was helpless, you stole him from me!”

Geraldine's golden voice wavered thinly. “Why, of. . . course you love Bertram. . . everyone loves Bertram. . . and you in particular must be especially fond of him, as a brother, and soon to be your brother in truth, as I am your true and dear sister. . . and of course, he loves thee too. . . for no one could help but love thee, Cordelia. . .”

“Ha!” laughed Cordelia bitterly. “Ha! A sister! Fie on your sisterliness! A sister have I never had, nor wanted one, yet I loved thee. A brother? Fie, fie! Bertram belongs to me; we were meant for each other; he loves me, or would, if thou had not stolen him. You will not steal him! If you had never been born, he would be mine! He should have loved me, if you had died in that carriage accident!! Alas, that ever you were born, alas that you lived! I have no sister, no lover, no friend!”

Geraldine was struck by pity, so struck that she almost swooned in her turn! But she steadied herself with arms all a-tremble, and with pitying eyes she said, “My poor Cordelia! If only you had told me!”

“Told you?” cried Cordelia. “Told that I wished you dead? What sympathy could I expect from thee for that wish?? I cannot ask your forgiveness, Cordelia, for I wish it still! I wish it even now!”

“My poor Cordelia,” said Geraldine, her eyes brimming with tears. “Of course I forgive thee, friend of my heart. Of course you must love passionately, for thou art my stormy petrel and thou flyest always in the wild west wind. But I know thou hast ever been true to one thing, if no other, and that is our love. I know thou couldst never mean such dreadful things as thou sayest.” 

This sentence, meant as a soothing balm, was instead the most bitter gall! It struck Cordelia like a blow. “Couldn't I!?” she shrieked in pain and rage. “Couldn't I mean it?!?! Ha! HA! HA!!!” 

A cry erupted from the woods beyond, but to no avail. Cordelia wrenched free of Geraldine's marble arms and pushed with all her might, causing Geraldine to tumble helplessly into the rushing brook below. “Die!” she cried. “Die! That I may live at last!!” As she fell, Cordelia tore the crimson jewels from her golden hair! Oh! how they burned in her hand, like spots of blood in the sunlight!  
Her heart risen to too great a pitch of torment by her fevered actions to think further, Cordelia turned and stumbled blindly from the bridge, meaning to run into the village to cry the news of Geraldine's tragic death. As she ran, she fell straight into Bertram's arms as he ran toward the brook, and so shocked was she at first that she collapsed against him in a faint, but he pushed her aside bitterly, crying:

“She-beast!” he shouted. “Monster! What hast thou done?”

“Bertram!” she wailed. “Geraldine is dead! My poor, beloved Bertram, our Geraldine is dead!”

She clutched at his arm and tried to press him into an embrace, but he tore himself free, pushing her onto the ground, crying, “Away, wretch! I have seen all! O wait, waves, and stay your cruel claws! I will save thee, my peerless Geraldine!” He flung himself onto the current without even removing his jacket, forgetting in his passionate heroism that he could not swim and that his shoes were heavy, but even so, fierce love propelled him forward for a time, to where Geraldine had fainted in the water and was being churned up by the cruel currents, and he clutched her to his bosom as he sank and gasped. 

As the waves tossed him to and fro, he remembered also how he had frightened Geraldine's beloved horse without meaning to, and he said aloud, “Ever have I been a curse on these two!” but the water ran into his mouth as he spoke so all that could be heard was “Ever!” and then the awful gurgling sound of his breath mixed with water. He tried to propel his way to the shore with his legs and one arm, but the current was too strong and their heavy clothes dragged them again and again beneath the surface. Then Geraldine roused from her faint to glimpse upward his front all pale and speak his name as her last word. “Bertram,” she whispered, and he said, “Tomorrow, Geraldine, tomorrow,” only it was more akin to “To- ggg – tmm” because of the water, and then the waves o'ercame them and the icy river was their bridal bed.  
 

Deep and heavy tolled the funeral bells, and heavy fell the iron hooves of the eighteen jet-black horses as they drew the silk and black brocaded mahogany hearse along the May-white lane. The villagers, mourners all, stood beneath a tombstone colored sky that seemed too bereft to weep with rain. Their wedding finery, dyed black in the night at the news of the lovers' death, was still fresh, staining the white arms and plump fingers of the maidens with weeping black, and they carried the garlands of May flowers they had woven for the wedding, the gay floral colors now presenting a sad contrast to the black of their gowns. The matrons and the men wept silently as though their faces had turned to cold granite in the great solemnity of their grief. 

As the village maidens gathered their garlands to drop with mournful tenderness upon the dead lovers, so recently alive, a few began to whisper, “Where is Cordelia Montmorency? Where is Geraldine Seymour's bosom friend? She is too prostrate with grief even to come to the funeral,” they whispered among themselves. Gathering by the grave side, they sang with tremulous sweet voices the final hymn, “In Death Not Divided.”

 _Tho' storms of woe shall rend thy soul_  
_Tho' needs go oft unprovided_  
_With this great truth I thee console_  
_Thou wilt be in death not divided_

A single raindrop fell on the faces of Geraldine Seymour and Bertram DeVere as they were lowered together into their double grave, as though the darkly gathered heavens wept for their lost beauty and their love that was never to be fulfilled. Above their simple pine coffins rose the simple marble headstone that had been prepared for their final epitaph:

BERTRAM DEVERE  
GERALDINE SEYMOUR  
IN DEATH NOT DIVIDED

Suddenly, a piercing scream of anguish rent the air from behind the wild gorse bushes of the mossy churchyard! The villagers, startled, stumbled in their singing and then ceased. The scream rose again, more hideous than before, as a figure wild in aspect leapt forth, clawing at its face and falling to the loamy earth before the grave. It was a woman, her face beautiful though distorted with pain, whose midnight hair all disarrayed was like a storm of madness, and her eyes were like a steel sword that flashes. “Alas!” she cried, and the voice was familiar and strange at the same time. “Our Vow! O powers of heaven, O Geraldine, forgive me! I have broken our first and most sacred vow, and must abide in the flames while thou dwelleth in Paradise!” And with that she flung herself into the open grave to clasp the lifelessly beautiful shell of Geraldine, her alabaster skin now empty of that rose-petal flush of color that would hitherto have tinted Geraldine's beloved features in that same long-familiar embrace, when she was still alive. 

With wondering eyes, the villagers realized it was Cordelia, the beautiful maid of honor who had worked so busily to prepare for her friend's wedding. They said to each other, “What means this outcry? Poor Cordelia must be mad with grief! Alas, for the two were like twin lambs in the meadow, wandering together in every season.”

“O blessed dead face, O Geraldine,” cried Cordelia, as her wild raven hair lashed the goldenness of Geraldine's tresses like black tongues of remorse. “How now can I live in the everlasting night, when the lamp of thy velvet eyes--” here she kissed Geraldine twice on each eye-lid – “hath been forever dimmed? Wither now shall I wander in darkness without thee, what rest can I find, my heart, my jewel, my fluttering dove?”

O, what a pathetic sight it was, and how the people were bewildered! They could not have imagined what furnaces of remorse burned in her tormented soul! The parson, still imagining it was mere grief that moved her, took pity and inclined his hand toward her, saying, “Hush, Cordelia, soft, my child, truly do we all of us grieve for these far too tragical deaths! But remember the promise of our Savior: Bertram and Geraldine both dwell now in Heaven, where youth and joy are everlasting, and one day thy soul shall fly to hers like a young hart upon the freshly flowered slope.” 

But his kindness was yet more gall to Cordelia's agonized heart! “That can never be!” she cried. “Never! Never! For heaven is barred to me, and the flames of perdition are already at my feet! See how they burn! See, see, my skin all seared away! I have murdered love for love, and killed hope, for paltry love! There can be no youth for me and no hope, for I have killed my Geraldine – my soul, I have murdered thee!” 

With that she cried another shriek of pain as though she were truly on fire, which sent terrifying thrills up each spine in the old mossy churchyard, and fell into a swoon over the bodies of Geraldine and Bertram.

For days after, she lay in the darkness of her father's humble stone cottage, her beautiful but grief-ravaged face pale as the dead, rousing only to mutter the words of that vow she had spoken first long ago under the wispering firs, by the silvery brook of their vanished innocence. After a time, the kindly parson came to speak with her, hoping to offer some balm for her grief, but she would not be consoled, and retreated deeper and deeper into her black misery. She would not go to church or sit in the garden, or do any work or baking, but only lay on her couch muttering or talking wildly of murder. Eventually, she had to be confined to the lunatic asylum, where on wild nights she can still be heard pacing behind the high stone walls, back and forth, back and forth, wringing her bone-white hands and singing the maiden songs of her youth and the golden days that were strangled by her terrible jealousy. One song above all others she sings, a ballad of love lost and found and lost again, and of a sorrowingly heavy soul 

_Never again to be borne like a cloud_  
_On the west wind's ageless wings_

It is said that on certain restless nights there are not one but two voices in the lonely woods that surround the bridge of Maiden's Vow, singing the same song from different realms of the spirit and the flesh. It is said also, that the ghost of Geraldine cannot be at peace without her Cordelia, and laments in one and the same sweet breath, both her murdered love, and the death of her oldest friendship. On nights such as this their voices twine together as once twined their maiden arms, and their sad song of mourning rises over the pine woods and the meadows, the dead for the living and the living for the dead.


End file.
